


The Ghosts of our Past aren't Always Angry

by SabrinaAuthor



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Ghostbur, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, PTSD, Phil - Freeform, Sleepy Boys Inc - Freeform, Sleepy bois, TommyInnit - Freeform, Trauma, Tubbos got ptsd, Villain Schlatt, Villain Wilbur, after the November 16th, before December 5, beofre December 16th, gschlatt, philza - Freeform, sbi, sbi + tubbo, sbi+tubbo, somewhere around that area, tommy also has ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28282143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabrinaAuthor/pseuds/SabrinaAuthor
Summary: There's a legend in New L'Manburg. That on some nights you can hear the guitar of the old president, playing from the button room. Tubbo lets it get under his skin and takes the chance to have a conversation.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100





	1. A legend

**Author's Note:**

> Tws for alcohol and death

There’s a legend in New L’manburg.

No one’s really sure who started it. 

On some nights when the skies were clear and the creek made herself quiet, you could hear the old president, playing his unfinished symphony. 

Tubbo thought about the legend a lot. Thought about Wilbur, finally at peace as he bled out in the arms of his father. Thought about Wilbur’s decaying body left in the frozen ground near the caravan, where it had all started. Thought about the button room, still left to open air, a reminder of how he had failed. 

Thought about the sound of His voice and His guitar that would drift in through the window late at night. 

He thought too much. 

...

Being the president was... hard. 

He had watched the stress of it tear apart two men as he did nothing. Tubbo could only hope the same fate wasn’t his; he usually just tried not to think about it.  Day by day they rebuilt L’manburg; building houses, making policies. Making deals with Dream, avoiding Techno. 

The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, omnipresent. They couldn’t get the smell to leave, like it was buried and permanent in the turned soil. So they just left it. Resolving to try not to think about it. Try not to speak about it. Try not to feel the sense of dread every time anyone brought up the explosion. Try not to think about where the smell of gunpowder had come from.

The work was hard. Tubbo would spend hours upon hours collecting materials and building houses. Backbreaking physical work that took hours and left you sore. But, It did help distract from the recent events. That was a plus at least. Yet, the days were long and at the end of them he was going to bed exhausted, and feeling empty. 

Sleep didn’t come so easy nowadays. 

His brain couldn’t help but remind him of being  _ trappedtrappedtrappedtrapped _ **.** The smell of gunpowder and the pure fear coursing through his veins. So full of terror it fucking  _ hurt _ . Staring up at Techno with a loaded crossbow and an unreadable expression and understanding what true horror was. 

On those nights he couldn’t help but let a passive hand glide across the burn scar that ran over his heart and spread across his chest. Memorizing the bumps and inconsistencies. There’s a feeling, Tubbo had learned, when you feel your own scars without malice. Something that changed too quickly to name what it was. Switching somewhere between sadness and anger and emptiness and, and… 

It was gone and replaced with another unnamable feeling too fast to tell what anything was anymore. 

He couldn’t do anything but stare up at the ceiling and the still blank walls. Just,,, feeling. Emotions were hard. They were confusing and unexplainable and, 

and, 

Just,

Too much. 

He stopped trying to name them after a while. 

Some mornings, when Tubbo woke, a bottle of nondescript alcohol sat on top of his dresser, beside his old suit. Folded, yet still stained and ripped. 

When he came back those nights both were gone, leaving only the smell of alcohol and copper. 

It wasn’t just him being reminded of when L’manburg had just been declared independent,, right? 

He caught himself staring at the caravan more often than he should, lost in a memory long gone. Those nights he dreamed about the large black walls, shadowing the land. He dreamed of Wilbur and his song for L’manburg. 

He woke up crying.

It was those nights the guitar seemed to be louder. The soft plucking of strings was there night after night. echoing around the empty crater. Playing to an unwilling audience of New L’manburg houses. 

No one mentioned it. 

A part of him wished they would, a part of him wished they wouldn’t. His own mind was conflicted on the existence of something that he wasn’t even sure was real. Past him would scoff at himself, roll his eyes in silence and then try and be supportive. Present him just felt lost.

It wasn’t healthy. _ God, _ he knew it wasn’t fucking healthy. That he wasn’t doing good. Knew he should talk to someone. But I mean, realistically, Who’s there to turn to? Everyone already had their own problems to deal with, he was only adding to the problem if he went looking for help. 

Best to just stay quiet. 

Best to...

It’s just for the best. 

...

The smell of gunpowder had been getting stronger. 

He thought it had just been him, but when Fundy brought it up there was no denying it. It had prompted a panicked search for any missed Tnt that lasted almost an entire day. It was almost more concerning that they hadn’t found any. But I mean, that made sense, Techno hadn’t been spotted near the land for New L’manburg in weeks, Dream was in agreeance to leave them to their devices, Schlatt was rotting in his grave. And Wilbur? 

Well, 

Wilbur couldn’t do anything to L’manburg again. 

  
  
  
  
  


R̮̱͒̿ì̮g̪͆ḧ̤͓͗ṫ̙͓͞?̰̊

  
  
  
  


Tubbo did his best not to dwell on that thought. 

...

Tubbo brought the guitar playing up to Tommy once, as they listened to one of his disks and watched the sunset.

Tommy had paled, almost dramatically so, and not responded for a second, before denying hearing anything. Tubbo hadn’t pushed him, letting him go back to tentatively ranting about whatever petty thing he had started focusing on that day. 

Tubbo wasn’t one to forget about how manic the man had been. Wasn’t one to forget how upbeat he had been about Tubbo’s own death. Wasn’t exactly going to forget how afraid he'd been every time Wilbur was around. 

Tubbo wondered if that had really risen after he’d been exiled or if he was always that way. 

It made him uneasy that he didn’t have an answer. 

It made him more uneasy that the more he thought about it the less sure he was that Wilbur had ever been all that great. 

Tubbo chose to not think about it. 

And yet, on some nights his brain couldn’t help but wander. Couldn’t help but think. Because, There’s a legend in New L’manburg. 

A legend whispered from ear to ear with teary eyes and heavy hearts.

A legend of fear and hope and things that strum in the dead of night. 

  
  
  
  
  


The guitar was playing again. 

The guitar was playing  _ again _ . 

Tubbo felt like his mouth was full of cotton and his head was spinning. 

Found himself Full of so many emotions and he couldn’t name a single fucking one of them. 

He grabbed the first thing beside him. A full bottle of liquor. The weight of it felt nice in his hand for about a second until he remembered it was the kind Schlatt drinks. Well, used to drink his brain reminded him dull-ly. 

The guitar was still playing. And god, He would do anything to just make it  _ stop _ . And as the shards of glass set into his palm,, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. As the horrid smell of alcohol set in the air he couldn’t seem to focus. The world felt fuzzy and wrong and he wasn’t even really sure he was a part of it anymore. 

A part of him wondered if the respawn after the festival had been fake. If he had met his perma death. Somewhere in the back of his head vaguely registered it was bad that he couldn’t seem to make himself care either way. His hand was numb and the blood running down it felt like it was fake. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at his reflection in the mirror as he walked by.

The cold November air had been a shock. The first thing that hadn’t felt like it was being processed through a layer of glass all night. The wooden floor boards were frozen under his bare feet, and cold air nipped at his face and arms. 

And yet, He still found himself stumbling out towards the button room. Still found himself listening to the tune in the air. Still found himself with tears in the corners of his eyes threatening to fall. 

And, as he rounded the corner into the button room? 

“Hello Tubbo.” 

And the guitar finally stops. 


	2. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for Alcohol and panic attacks, scars, and self guilt

“Nice night out isn’t it?” There was an empty white noise buzz in Tubbo ears only disputed by a voice that was all too familiar. Tubbo’s mouth hung open slightly, weather it was from shock or pure exhaustion wasn’t apparent. Wilbur was... different to say the least

His skin looked sickly, so pale it looked grey and he wore a yellow fluffy looking sweater that looked too large on his thin frame. In Wil’s hands his old guitar rested, the last cord still ringing out lightly. There was also the fact that his body was transparent, but really what was to be expected of a ghost.

God, this night was too long already. 

“You're bleeding.” Wilbur’s voice had changed since his death. It was lighter, airier. Carried itself with a kind of wistfulness that Tubbo couldn’t name.

“I guess I am” 

Dried blood was on the floor and the smell of gunpowder was in the air. The signs on the walls seemed to glare at him with their edges darkened from the explosion. The cobblestone Tubbo had placed so people didn’t have to look at the button room glittered in red. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” The remains of the lie sat hot on his tongue and Tubbo felt himself mouthing the words back without sound, almost like he couldn’t believe he’d said it. 

“I think we both know that’s not true.” Wilbur’s tone was somewhere between bitterness and melancholy yet his words cut through the air sharply. And the tension in the air thickened. Tubbo felt deja vu, just for a second. A flash of the memory of being accused playing in his head. 

“How is Phil?”

“He’s fine.” It wasn’t true. No one had seen Phil in weeks. He had talked to Fundy a few times earlier, but he had just up and left. To deal with his grief, Tubbo supposed, killing one’s own flesh and blood couldn’t exactly be easy. Wilbur either didn’t catch the lie or he didn’t have the energy to dispute it because the words hung around them after they had already faded, almost as if asking Tubbo to correct them. 

“And Fundy?” 

“He misses you.” These were closer to the truth. And yet, they still felt wrong. As the words exited his lips Tubbo felt like taking them back, it was too close to the truth. Felt like he was giving away something that didn’t belong to him. His lungs were filled with guilt, weighing him down. Making it harder to breathe, 

“I miss him too.” Wilbur’s fingers twitched, playing an unintentional note on the strings. His expression was unreadable.

“You’re the first one to find me, you know. I’ve been playing the guitar, but no one else has come to talk yet.” The words felt hollow. Wrong.  _ ‘I’m lonely’ _ His eyes said. _ ‘Please don’t leave me’  _ was written on his lips, kept back only by thinly veiled self control. ‘ _ I’m sorry’  _ his fingers seemed to whisper, playing another note.

“You blew up L’manburg.” Wilbur flinches, his shoulders slouching and ducking his head. He refused to make eye contact, looking at his guitar instead. Tubbo tastes blood and his hand stings. 

“Why?” He choked out, his voice cracking. His mouth tasted like lead. 

“I don’t remember.”

And isn’t that perfect? 

...

A night had passed along, Tubbo leaving the button room as the sun rose. The day had been long, and the work was hard. The smell of gunpowder remained. Fundy had patched up Tubbo’s hand staying silent to the state of his wound other than the remark to “Take care of yourself, okay?” Which Tubbo had brushed off quickly with a half assed smile. 

He couldn’t bring himself to meet Fundy’s eyes. 

That day he worked on a section of housing away from the others, closer to the button room. He knew that Ghost Wilbur was gone, but he couldn’t help but glance over to it, every once and awhile.

That night he found himself back at the button room.

…

“Where did you even get your old guitar back from?” a large sticker on the body of the guitar gladly displaying a faded yellow smiley face that Tommy had put on years ago, bent at the edges and showing the love of old age. 

His mind’s eye showed flashes of different. The splinters of a guitar once loved on the floor of Pogtopia. A smiley sticker smiling up at Tubbo one last time as it’s smashed into the ground. Wilbur screaming. 

He did his best not to think about it. 

Tubbo watched as the translucent man glanced down at his guitar in confusion for a moment. “”I’m not really sure, I just kind of... Have it.” He fiddled with the strings a little, tuning one of them.

“I think it’s just a ghost thing.” Wilbur excused, shrugging slightly. Tubbo cocked his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“Ooo, What other kind of ghost things are there?” Tubbo couldn’t help but feel relieved to have another conversation topic.

“It’s really not as cool as you would think,” Wilbur shrugged again, “I can’t fly or anything, can’t phase through walls. I can go invis and float just a little bit but, even then that’s not much.” 

“That’s still pretty cool,” Tubbo felt an impish grin slide onto his face, “you could totally go prank Tommy with that.” 

Wilbur's face slid into a grin of it’s own “I could.” For a second Tubbo was reminded of when they were starting L’manburg. How happy they were. Singing songs around the campfire, the quiz between Dream and Wilbur, the drug park. 

And then, what he was thinking about shifted. A flash of Tommy’s pale face, caught in stark horror at the mention of his brother, went through Tubbo’s mind's eye. And for a second his eyes fell to the dried blood on the floor of the cave. He felt sick. “Maybe you shouldn’t” 

Watching Wilbur’s face fall was the worst thing he had seen all night. 

“Yeah.” 

…

“Do you think they hate me?” Wilbur’s voice comes out too soft and the question hangs out into the open air for a while too long. Almost fading away into the stars. It was the first night he and Tubbo were talking outside of the cave and really it was a night to see. Not a single cloud in the sky, and the stars were shining brighter than ever, twinkling from above with a peacefulness that Tubbo could only strive to achieve.

“That’s a hard question.” Tubbo couldn’t bring himself to look at Wilbur. The moon watched from above, impassive to the scene below. 

“I think that some of them were…” Tubbo wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth tasted like lead and his words were heavy. “Very distraught.” The words felt wrong. He just wanted to stop talking. 

“About L’manburg being gone. But, they were very sad about you dying too.” His eyes only followed the sky. 

“Oh.” Wilbur knew it was a lie. They both knew. 

Neither of them knew what to say. So neither of them said anything.

…

Tubbo was distracted. Both Tommy and Phil were in New L’manburg for once, helping them build that day. Theoretically they were supposed to be working at about double speed. And yet... He couldn’t help but keep looking at the empty crater. Couldn’t help but think about Wilbur. 

_ Couldn’t help but think about Wilbur’s ghost.  _

Tommy was worried about him, Fundy and Phil too. Their concerned gazes felt a bit too prying, a bit too close to pity. A small part in the back of his head reminded him that’s how everyone looked at him well he was being executed. Somewhere between concern and pity, somewhere just a bit too close to no reaction at all. He tried not to think about it too much. 

He got sent to his house early. Phil had caught him staring at the crater without working one too many times and after seeing the bags under his eyes sent him to ‘go rest’. 

He couldn’t seem to fall asleep. 

And when he finally did sleep he dreamt of Wilbur.  _ Alive  _ Wilbur. 

He dreamt of Wilbur and Schlatt. Years back when they were close friends. Dreamt about the first war for L’manburg, how happy they all were when they won. Dreamt about how angry Wilbur was all the time after they got exiled. Dreamt about Wilburs dead body being held by Phil as he withdrew the bloody sword from Wil’s chest.

He woke up crying again. 

It was dark outside his window and the smell of alcohol lingered heavily in the room. Through the closed window he could hear faint guitar playing once more. 

..

“You remember when Phil taught us how to make those chinese lanterns?” Wilbur’s guitar had been left inside for the night. Abandoned in favor of laying on the damp grass and staring at the sky. 

Tubbo let out a small chuckle “And Tommy and Techno kept accidentally tearing up all the paper.” The memory had always been one of his happiest from childhood. It was a few years after he had been practically adopted into the family in everything except name. Just a few months after both Techno and Wilbur stopped living at home with them, and it was a rare occurrence to have them both visit so they all gathered. 

They all had been seated at the almost too small kitchen table and given the thin paper.Phil had given them a careful instruction on how to correctly fold and tape the paper. Instructions that Tommy had ignored, of course. 

And about halfway through Wilbur’s second correctly folded one Tommy had poked a hole into the paper with an impish ‘Oops!’ and a cheeky smile that was just asking to start a fight. That of course made a full out squabble of trying to make sure the others couldn’t finish anything they started. 

By the end of the night they had about as many failed lanterns as they had working ones, but no one really seemed to mind. Just watching the ones they had made lighting the sky was amazing. Even as Tommy and Techno light heartedly argued about who had made prettier lanterns, and Phil laughed at the two of them. 

Wilbur let out a gasp and Tubbo could almost hear the happiness almost leak out of his voice as he exclaims a quiet “You do remember!” And as a smile graced Tubbos face for what was probably the first time in a week or two. For a second he couldn’t help but wonder if this was healing. 

…

_ It wasn’t healing. It wasn’t it wasn’t it  _ **_wasn’t_ ** _.  _

He had seen  _ Techno _ and not only that he was  _ inside New L’manburg _ . 

The burn scars that blossomed from his chest burned like they were new again, and  _ he couldn’t get it to go away _ . He couldn’t get the _ painpainpainpain _ to leave. His hand clutched at his neck where the top of the scar began and he was just, he was so  _ tempted _ . His fingers twitched and he thought about scratching off all of the scarred skin. Scratching until it was no more. 

_ To bleed for his sins _ a voice whispered from the back of his mind. 

He couldn’t find the energy to dismiss it, letting the thought swirl in the front of his brain contorting into horrible images he couldn’t seem to push away. 

He let out a shuddering breath and let his hand fall limp to his side. A headache was starting to form at the back of his head and he moved to go get a glass of water. But as he swung his legs off the side of the bed he couldn’t shake the feeling of the firework going off into his chest.  _ It felt like he was on fire.  _ And his chest seized, collapsing back into itself and he couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop  _ reliving _ . And the feeling of the fire burning,  _ consuming _ . The smell of gunpowder and  _ his own singed flesh _ meeting his nose 

He took another breath, a sob escaping from his mouth as he tried to breathe out slowly. And as he took in another breath too quickly he could feel tears escaping front the corners of his eyes. And god, what was that stupid fucking breathing pattern Tommy had shown him? He couldn’t remember. 

Tubbo settled for drawing in another quick breath, and holding it as long he could. Letting the tears in his eyes fall more heavily falling onto the blanket. Feeling his lungs ache for him to stop, to take another breath. 

And he refused. 

As black spots appeared in his vision he finally let go letting in another breath and laying down again. Just staring at the ceiling. 

Crying. 

He didn’t sleep that night. 

…

“Do you ever miss Schlatt, Tubbo?” Ghostbur asks. They were inside the cave, avoiding a horrible rainstorm going on just outside. 

“Not really.” Tubbo doesn’t even have to think about the reply just letting it flow off his tongue as he stares at the rain coming down. 

Doesn’t have to think about the reply.

Doesn’t have to think about if that’s true

Until he does. 

It’s just, Does he? Does he miss Schlatt? Tubbo shook his head, was he really thinking  _ this _ about the monster who sentenced him to death?  _ Maybe if you weren’t such a horrible person you wouldn’t miss him _ a voice from the back of his head whispered.  _ Maybe he would have treated you better if you didn’t drive everyone around you away _ another voice murmured, louder than the last. 

“Never even thought about it?” Although Tubbo wasn’t looking at him he could hear the disappointment in his voice, and as he glanced over to the transparent man, sure enough. He was pouting. 

“Why do you ask?” Tubbo said, cringing at his own tone, it wasn’t supposed to sound so… Tired. He was almost certain that Wilbur would comment on it and wasn’t really ready to answer. He glanced back to the rain, letting the repetitive motion of it falling lull his own thoughts into silence, Wil remaining silent for the time being. 

“Oh, well you see.” Wilbur floated out in front of Tubbo, careful to stay out of the storm  _ “I melt in the rain”  _ he had explained earlier in the evening. Wilbur looked nervous. The cold stone of the floor bit into Tubbo’s fingers as he found himself clutching at it. 

“Well,” Wilbur pauses again, his face twisting in… Concentration? Frustration? Indecisiveness? Tubbo couldn’t tell. 

“You’ll understand better if you can see him,” 

_ Him? _

“Come on out Schlatt!” Wilbur calls, and Tubbo can feel as his veins turn into ice. 

Schlatt timidly floats through the wall and Tubbo’s frozen. His ram horns were more prominent. Tubbo was reminded of watching Schlatt sanding his own horns down before appearing in public. A pair of furry ears stuck out of his hair, and rested on his horns so they gave off a fluffy, upturned look. And sure, Schaltt had ears before, but he did his best to hide them in his hair, and was ready to beat anyone half to death if they had anything even slightly bad about them. 

Schlatt’s wearing a large blue sweater, instead of his suit. It’s reminiscent of the ones Wilbur used to wear when he was a teen.Tubbo can’t help but feel the slightest uptick in his attitude as he notices a small red heart adorning the design.  _ How ironic _ .

His thoughts bite relentlessly. Gnawing at the edges of his coherence and self control. 

“Hi, Tubbo.” 

And the ice turns into  _ fire _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter! Please remember to leave kudos and comment! Comments keep me inspired to write and I love them so So much.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you liked it! Please remember to comment!


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